


Gladly A Fool For You

by Avelera



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies Fix-It, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fix-It, Fluff, Love, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 01:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5397746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/pseuds/Avelera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no need for Bilbo to sneak his way into Thorin’s room every night, it had just become a habit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gladly A Fool For You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emsiecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emsiecat/gifts).
  * Translation into Polski available: [Gladly A Fool For You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461171) by [GodOfWar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfWar/pseuds/GodOfWar)



> Written for emsiecat's prompt: "Not exactly what you were asking for but I've only just woken up; imagine Thorin and Bilbo sharing a bed for the first time after BotFA (which everyone survives of course). Thorin is fully healed and so so happy that Bilbo is with him and they are just the mushiness sappiest dorks, barely sleeping because they're so busy whispering sweet nothings and dorky endearments to one another under the covers all night long <3"

There was no need for Bilbo to  _sneak_  his way into Thorin’s room every night, it had just become a habit. After all, there wasn’t a soul in the mountain who didn’t know about the king’s _special regard_ for the burglar (retired), just as there wasn’t a single one who really believed that Bilbo stayed only to see Thorin through his injuries before returning home. The fact that it was nearly summer some six months after the battle, Thorin was fully healed, and Bilbo still in Erebor was proof enough of that.

The habit had begun when Óin declared Thorin’s wounds too fragile to be handled by any dwarf other than himself.  _Hamfisted and filthy, the lot of you_ , Óin had groused, and would not hear of anyone coming closer than arm’s length to Thorin’s bedside until the risk of infection had passed.

But he had said nothing of hobbits. Whether simple oversight or subtle approval, Óin never complained as Bilbo’s chair crept closer to Thorin’s side. Whatever barrier that had once existed between them had crumbled to dust on Ravenhill, the touch barrier broken with Bilbo desperately holding Thorin’s wound closed, babbling to keep Thorin awake and focused. Somehow after Thorin’s farewell it had just… slipped out. Bilbo would have said anything to keep Thorin with him another moment, just one more moment, and as it happened “anything” included the truth.

And there wasn’t much one could do to come back from “I love you” especially when it followed “Don’t you dare leave me.”

Maybe it had been enough. Simple joy had flooded Thorin’s face at the confession, the soft smile beneath the blood bringing with it enough life to gain them those precious seconds until Gandalf arrived.

It would have taken a crowbar to pry Bilbo away from his side in those first terrifying days when Thorin seemed to teeter at the very edge of death. Perhaps that’s why Óin had been so forgiving, and turned a blind eye the first time he had walked in a month later, and found Bilbo curled up against Thorin’s side, one arm thrown over his bandaged chest, the lines of pain on Thorin’s face smoothed in sleep and his fingers resting on Bilbo’s back. Bilbo only knew this because at the sound of footsteps he had jolted awake, just in time to see Óin slip out the door.

“Were you seen?” Thorin said now as Bilbo closed the heavy door behind him without the hinges giving even a squeak. He was sitting up in his wide, plush bed with its heavy blue coverlets. A candle burned beside him, casting red highlights into the silver of his hair, and Bilbo could not suppress his grin.

“Please,” he scoffed. “As if I couldn’t avoid tromping Big Folk like your dwarves.”

“Not that much bigger,” Thorin pointed out, his eyes following Bilbo’s movements as he drew back the covers and slid into bed beside Thorin.

“Still tromping,” Bilbo said, and leaned in for a kiss.

He wasn’t sure, in retrospect, how they had gotten to kissing so quickly. Not six months ago he would have laughed nervously and possibly fainted at the suggestion that he would one day kiss Thorin Oakenshield. Now it came as naturally as breathing. He could remember the exact second that had changed, though he had not known it at the time. Even as Thorin lay dying he had been afraid to touch, to breach that invisible wall of propriety and authority and  _difference_  that existed between them, and his hands had fluttered uselessly above Thorin’s bleeding body. Thorin was a king, a leader, and a dwarf, someone Bilbo respected and helped and cared for, but as untouchable as the stars.

Then Thorin had apologized. For leading him into perils, for his words and deeds, sounding so desperate and sad at the thought of having hurt Bilbo, when he himself lay dying on the ice, and something had _snapped_ within him. Then Bilbo was grabbing Thorin’s hand, wrenching off his coat to staunch the blood flow, desperately assuring Thorin he was forgiven even as he begged and cajoled, and then outright threatened him not to dare die.

It had been impossible to go back after that, sitting in the tent the first time Thorin opened his eyes, now washed and bandaged, looking at Bilbo with a mix of fear and hope, it was impossible to go back to seeing him as any of those grand things. He was only Thorin now,  _his_  Thorin, and Bilbo had clasped Thorin’s injured hand and unthinking pressed a kiss to the knuckles.

Thorin had not flinched or started. He had only given such a look of relief at the sight, soft and hopeful and blinding bright. Then each kiss was easier than the last, as was each touch, until now he pressed up close to Thorin’s side, enjoying the heat that radiated from his now-healed body, giving a soft sigh of contentment when Thorin reached out and drew him close, burying his nose against Bilbo’s curls.

“I’ve missed you,” Thorin murmured.

“I’ve been gone two hours,” Bilbo scoffed. “Very _necessary_ hours of arrangements. Gandalf has graciously agreed to stop by the Shire and have my belongings sent along.”

Thorin went still, then looked down at him. “You’re not going yourself?”

“All the way there and back again,  _again_?” Bilbo said. “What nonsense. Unless one of the eagles is feeling obliging, it would take over a year to get home.”

“But it is only seven months back to the Shire, at worst,” Thorin said, as if reminding him. “A great deal shorter with aid you have earned, and easy passage across Mirkwood…”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I meant back here.”

Thorin went quiet, then said softly, “Your books, your armchair…?”

Bilbo shifted, butterflies fluttering in his stomach. It was not so easy as he liked to make it sound, and there was an aching pang at the thought of not seeing sunlight stream through Bag End’s windows on a pleasant morning, or his tomatoes ripening from the back stoop. Yet the other pang, the thought of turning his back on the Mountain, of watching Thorin recede in the distance, not to be seen for a year, or longer, for Middle Earth was still a perilous place…. That thought robbed the breath from him like a blow to the stomach, ten times the ache of nostalgia in his heart for his empty childhood home.

“Can be easily moved,” Bilbo said airily, waving his hand as if to brush the question away. “Though I do hope some room might be spared for a garden. That acorn won’t plant itsel—”

The words were smushed back against his mouth by lips, and Thorin was clasping the back of his neck as he kissed Bilbo breathless. Bilbo blinked in surprise, but was hardly one to waste such a kiss as this one, and so returned as good as he got. 

Thorin broke away first, grinning like the sun and Bilbo opened his mouth, sure he ought to say something. Bilbo wanted to tell Thorin that he was beautiful, that of course he would stay, that he had found home on the other side of the world inside a mountain, that home was here in this bed with him.

He wanted to tell him that Thorin would be well sick of him by the end, that Bilbo wanted to get fantastically old together and trace every wrinkle and scar until he memorized it, until they were both as gray as the streaks in Thorin’s hair. In a way, he wanted to apologize that they had already wasted so much time, that he hadn’t dared touch until Thorin was dying, and now he would do better, he would  _be_  better.

Yet each word melted like sugar on his tongue, and he gave a squawk, because Thorin was dragging him down against the bed as if Bilbo weighed nothing at all, rucking the coverlet as he pulled them close together, and Bilbo could taste the deep, joyful laughter against his lips. He could not suppress his own smile, didn’t think he ever would ever try to suppress his smiles again, as Thorin’s arms wrapped around him and drew him close. Bilbo couldn’t help laughing too, knowing the two of them must look utterly foolish giggling like this. 

But Thorin’s sharp nose was nuzzling against his button one, and Thorin was looking at Bilbo with those stunning blue eyes and yes, there, that pang was in Bilbo’s heart again but warmer, brighter. He could not help but wrap Thorin just as tight in return, and smile into their kiss, for he would gladly be a fool for this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed, and would love to hear if you did. Feel free to check out my other works, or look me up on Tumblr (URL: Avelera) where I spend most of my time crying about Bagginshield.


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